


Hunting Leviathan

by SilentProtagonist000



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, British Empire, Epic Battles, Epic Love, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, M/M, Nudity, Sea Monsters, everything is epic fuck me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentProtagonist000/pseuds/SilentProtagonist000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1599. Archibald “Archie” Connell, a buccaneer for the British Royal Navy, has gone rogue in an attempt to capture Kyogre, the mythical protector of the sea. Tasked with finding and arresting Archie is Maximilian “Maxie” Matheson, a naval captain with a history with the pirate, and his navigators Courtney and Tabitha. It’s a race against time and memory, for the ocean is a large and angry place; and both men know that once it swallows, it chooses to never spit out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently plotted to go for 16 chapters. It may extend longer/shorter if I see fit. 
> 
> I decided that I was sick and tired of writing emotional fanfiction that keeps me awake for days, so here's a epic, fast-paced, action-packed historical fic with smut at some point in time. Fun for the entire family! 
> 
> This is based on an AU I posted to my tumblr under the hardenshipping tag. I kinda liked it too much to just leave it alone. I can't exactly tell you how often I'll update... but I'll do my damnedest. I know, I'm famous for starting things and then not having the time/interest to finish, but hell's bells, I like this a lot and I want to see it through to the end. Someone pinch me if I don't. I'll even set daily alarms on my phone. 
> 
> I suck.

_Growing up, Archie was afraid of the ocean. Its wet claws seemed tender to grasp at his youthful, carefree ankles, dragging him down into the depths, never again to be seen. Being raised in a port city made it harder for him—when he could run away from his mother, who always seemed too preoccupied to keep much of an eye on him, he’d always sit on the edge of the marina, staring out at the lurching aquamarine waves and shrink away when one dared to touch his dark skin. It was almost as if it wished to cleanse him from his curse—as if it meant to absolve him of his accident of birth._

_He’d always known that he was a half-breed, even though no one told him. The prim ladies on the streets of Liverpool whispered it, their coarse words hiding behind Pigeot-feather fans and running to hide beneath their lavish hoop skirts. The gentlemen (oh, how loosely that epithet was used!) snorted as they fumbled with pocketwatches and top hats in their pale hands. He knew the scorn in their eyes as they saw him, the heathen, stumble awkwardly beside his African mother on the mud streets, his father and owner high on the horse-drawn cart a few paces ahead. Slave-born and British-raised, Archibald Connell was the very definition of bastard, and he wished that the daggers thrown from the mouths of the people who blamed him would stab him so he’d never have to hear them again._

_Deep inside him, Archie held grudges against his parents—his mother for being lucky enough to be one skin color, even though her black hue made her nothing more than a slave in the eyes of the imperialists. Even more, he despised his father for never admitted the love affair he’d had with his mother, a typical pompous man who did not relent to being in love with the enslaved woman he supposedly owned. Archie was here, the product of those lies, and the more he understood it as he aged, the more he resented them and everything around him. Most often, himself._

_But once Archie had grown up, he knew that the ocean was the only thing in England that wouldn’t judge him. It encompassed the entire planet, from the shores of India to licking the sandstone walls and rotting wooden docks of the Liverpool marina, and it was stronger than any British empire. Stronger, even, than any Queen Elizabeth. He fell in love with the sounds of lapping water and the sea shanties bellowed from a deep, foggy distance by the crews of the merchant ships and the navy sailors. He’d listen to Wingull cry over their faraway songs, and Archie found himself humming along, desperate to break out alongside them. As years passed, Archie’s fear dissolved into the ocean’s spray, evolving from anxiety into a hungry need to conquer the endless pool before him. And, finally, once he was old enough, he kissed his mother goodbye and fell deeply into it._

_After all, no England could control the seas._

* * *

The rattling of carriages outside shook Archie from his reverie, the reverberation of the wooden wheels flowing into through the metal bars on his cell window. His turgid blue eyes, sharp and focused, tried to crane up to see, but alas, the small opening to the world outside his dank prison was too far up. Archie sighed and leaned against the wall from his sitting position, the mildew staining the old limestone, chipping and yellowed from age and water stains that he didn’t want to identify. He didn’t know how long he’d been here—it must have been days since the trial. His captors had told him that he’d be held in Liverpool until they could transfer him to London for his beheading, far away from family and friends to witness his demise. Archie was secretly thankful for that. The last thing he needed were his mother’s gaze on him as someone lopped his head from the Tower’s execution platform like Henry VIII’s queens.

_What a queen I would be._

According to the naval officer’s court martial, Archie’s maritime crimes (of “treason” and “abandonment,” he was told) had landed him just that—the ultimate fate of royalty. Archibald Connell had done his job a bit too well, it seemed; so well that when Spanish and French blood did not quell the raging, angry storm within him, he turned on the merchant ships of his home country. The life of a buccaneer for the Royal Navy had served him well up until now, as his heavy complexion and deep resentment for the arrogant British he had the misfortune of being born under made him nothing short of perfect. After all, because of his birthright, there was no way he could stand among the regular naval forces.

There was a gentle rattling at one end of the dimly lit hallway, the barred door to Archie’s cell vibrating softly as the steel entrance clambered open. The candles sitting on the crumbling walls flickered from the outside breeze as two prison guards, clad completely in immaculate white and curly wigs, stepped in. Rifles in hand, they stood in stark contrast against the sickly edifice around them. Archie knew they were here for them—his cell was the only one occupied in this wing, after all, with him being such a wanted criminal. They didn’t want him… conspiring. His entire crew had been captured along with him and the navy was aware of how loyal they were to him, so they’d been separated on the grounds that Archie would organize a revolt.

Of course, Archie knew they were right. However, he wasn’t going to give them the benefit of the doubt.

As each footfall brought them closer to him, their steps not quite echoing and instead being absorbed by the soggy stone, Archie wondered why he’d picked the Royal Navy, of all things. He could’ve just as easily assembled a crew and plundered the seas alone, a violent pirate, making everything bleed in his wake. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew that’s the route he would really have chosen. Archie was born with one half of his heart in the ocean and every bit of it screamed to follow it far from the land of his so-called “home.”

But, just as the force of discrimination that brought him there in the first place, he was influenced by something. Some _one_. A someone that had nothing to do with his mother or his father or even anything about how a proper British gentleman should act. That certain someone was a shock of red and had his own passions—and, blindly, Archie had given him the other half of his heart and followed that instead.

_I’m a damned fool._

“Archibald Connell,” came a sneering lilt from the door before him. Archie snapped to attention, having hardly noticed that the two guards stopped in front of his cell. “We’ve come to fetch you. You will be sent to London posthaste to face your execution.” He hated the snobby whine in this man’s voice, and when the door to his cell became unlocked with a slight jangle and swung open, Archie fought the urge to pull at the ropes binding his hands behind his back just to punch the guard. It was now that Archie was able to finally assess the faces of the two bastards sending him to his fate: a doughy, pinched countenance that likely belonged to the owner of the voice, and a glimmering indigo glare, determined and bouncing against a strangely feminine—

Archie’s heart stopped. The strangely feminine face, shimmering gloriously in the low dark, smirked at him with their M-shaped mouth and winked. Suddenly, Archie understood, and he quietly smirked back.

“Stop your insolence, pirate scum,” the first guard said, again nasally and irritating. He turned to the smaller figure beside him and dropped the keys into their outstretched hand. “Now, soldier, I understand that you are new to this position. May I introduce you to Archibald Connell?” The guard grinned wolfishly at Archie, shouldering his rifle with pompous pride. “The most dangerous traitor to the British Army, and here he is, cornmeal in our hands! This is a worthwhile career, private.” Leaning in so close to Archie that he could smell the pig’s awful breath, hot on his face, the guard snickered and Archie repressed the urge to spit. “What do you expect from the child of an African?”

Biting his tongue, Archie saw a silent rage flicker by in the other guard’s blue eyes as he met their gaze, but the first one did not even give the second time to chime in. “And hear this!” laughed the man, pulling back, just out of lunging range from Archie. “I hear one of his first mates is a woman. And she fights without a blouse and with her top on display. How ludicrous! What are women doing, thinking they can be so vile? A proper lady keeps herself off ships and covered up.” The man was too busy listening to himself ramble to hear a slight whisper of metal as the second guard began to unsheathe the sword at their curved hip, the blade of the rapier oddly bright.

“Private, you are too sil—” The guard turned to see his accomplice, sword out and turned against their own chest, both hands on the handle. Without warning—and without breaking the eye contact they’d moved from Archie to the guard—the figure slit the chest of their clean white uniform from the bottom to the collar. Large, full breasts bounced from the fabric, free from their confines, and the guardsman’s jaw went slack.

Cocking her head with a coy smile, the newly revealed woman showed her set of sallow teeth. “I believe a woman can do whatever she pleases,” she said.

Without even giving her opponent enough time to reach for and load his rifle, she lunged forward and stabbed the misanthrope in the heart, a clean and even slice that grounded the man instantly. The guard fell to the floor and, stunned expression forever frozen on his face, stared up everlastingly at the ceiling, his white uniform stained with a slowly blooming flower of crimson. With a heavy sigh, the woman sheathed her sword and rushed to Archie’s side, reaching behind him to untie his binds.

“I felt yeh would never come fer me,” Archie said. “But relief is not a word I’d use right now, Shelly.”

Shelly shrugged and loosened the rope around Archie’s wrists and the buccaneer finally shook his hands free, rubbing the red marks on his skin and regarding his friend gratefully. She tore the white royal wig from her head, allowing her long, flowing black ringlets cascade down her back. “You could thank me,” she grumbled, grabbing his forearm to hoist him to a standing position. “Arceus, men are disgusting creatures. First your sort ridicules a woman with self-government and then you require each other to wear horse’s hair atop your heads. When will your idiocy end?”

Archie bent down to pick up the dead guard’s rifle. He quickly loaded it. “It’s not my idiocy, Shelly,” Archie said, snapping the barrel into place. “Blame the barnacle on the floor here.” He nudged the body with his foot, ensure it wouldn’t move. “So do yeh have an escape plan in mind, or are we going down fightin’?”

“Matt has already liberated the rest of the crew,” Shelly said. “From last I heard, they already have a ship stolen and waiting in the harbor. The only missing piece was to find you. I find it fortunate that Matt and I were able to escape during the arrest, otherwise you would be another victim to the Tower of London.” Shelly clicked her tongue. “I think that is far too cowardly a death for a man such as yourself.”

Archie bellowed a laugh. “You got that right,” he said. “Aye, I’d rather die like this sea scrub on the ground—with a blade in my heart and breasts in my face.”

Shelly rolled her eyes and mumbled something under her breath. “We should leave,” she said, “before the other guards realize that my friend here and I are not coming back. Come, Archie. Britian is no place for us any longer.”

Archie’s eyes were downcast as he stepped over the body, the death face still as shocked as it had been moments ago. “Britain was never a place for us,” he said.

“But the ocean is,” Shelly said.

With a smile, Archie stepped out the door, rifle in hand.

“But the ocean is.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pleased to have the first chapter aside from the prologue up so quickly! I hope to have this fanfiction written in record time. (Then again, I always say that, but it never happens? Good job.) We'll see how it goes. 
> 
> Enjoy more exposition! Another couple chapters of bleh and then we'll get into the good stuff, I promise.

_Clawing at the liquid prison around Maxie was doing nothing against the struggle, and no matter how hard he fought, he seemed to only be slipping down further. But yet he didn’t know if he was pushing against the blackening ocean around him or sinking deeper on purpose—all he knew was that the dream was always the same and he was always determined, even if he never knew what end he was heading so strongly toward._

_There was a swift intake of air, or lack thereof, as Maxie’s lungs nearly filled with water. The salty tang of sea was brusque on his tongue, leaving no room for imagination about the boundaries containing him. He was drowning, or choosing to drown, in the ocean, and yet there was no fear in his heart. He barely perceived his soft red hair, suspended in animation, flow in front of his visage as he swam further down. The light of the world above him grew ever weak and was instead consumed by darkness, enveloping and more powerful than the penetrating rays overhead. Maxie felt his lungs grow tight, his precious air becoming scarce, but he did not make a motion to return to the surface. Somehow, he willed himself down further, as if he was chasing something much more potent than his life._

_Maxie felt his jaw unlock as he opened his mouth, as if to call out a name, but a rush of water into his throat silenced him, and suddenly, everything was blacker than it was before._

* * *

_Slam. Slam. Slam._ Three heavy-handed knocks shook the door to Maxie’s quarters as the man sat up with a start, gasping as the invisible water in his dream was once more replaced with nothingness. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the impervious nighttime gloom, the lantern at his bedside blown out long ago. Groaning softly at the sudden awakening, Maxie ran a thin, gnarled hand over his angled jaw and tousled his shoulder-length hair. He wasn’t sure what the time was, but he was certain that it was not an attractive hour to be roused. He was on call tonight, so he should have been expecting some rude emergency to take place, yet he was disgruntled at the interruption.

_Slam. Slam._ Two more thumps came from outside and Maxie hissed. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” He shouted. Fumbling at his bedside table, feeling for his flint and striker to light the small oil lantern, hitting the stones against one another and the ensuring spark making the Wailord fat roar silently to life. Shadows cast themselves with shrinking anguish against the walls of Maxie’s cabin as the short, slight man stood, taking the flame with him. The orange glow imprinted on his white sleeping gown, bunched at his knobbed knees and lacings undone along his prominent collarbone.

Sleepily, Maxie stumbled to the door, grumbling as he stubbed his toe on the old wood floor. He barely managed to undo the lock before swinging the egress wide open, the light from the well-lit hallway of officer’s quarters flooding his senses and blinding him briefly. With a squint, Maxie’s blurred vision could make out the fuzzy red form of what was likely a naval private—probably one of the night sentries, Maxie decided. Heavens, he needed his eyewear, but his unexpected visitor had given him no time to fish around for them in his room.

“Private! What is the meaning of this?” Maxie demanded. “Why do you call so late? Do you know the hour?” Maxie didn’t—it could have been midmorning for all he knew, but his duty as a captain was to strike as much guilt and fear into his underlings as possible.

The private snapped to attention. “Captain Matheson! One hand past the midnight hour, sir!” he shouted. Maxie cringed—it was far too early to be yelled at by anyone, even if it was out of respect.

“That was not the meaning of my question, imbecile,” he rumbled. “Answer me! Who calls at such a time?”

“Admiral Tailor, Captain, sir!” the private yelled. Maxie still couldn’t make out his identity, for he was completely unable to see anything without his eyewear. “You have been summoned on urgent matters to his quarters, sir! I was sent to fetch you, sir!”

At that, Maxie’s ears perked and his interested was piqued. Admiral Tailor? The bastard was fat and incompetent, but he at least knew enough not to bother his officers during their precious rest. Maxie had never been summoned from sleep by Admiral Tailor before, which turned his current situation from a minor nuisance into alarm. Whatever required his attention was surely dire. “Well, then, Private, you have done what was expected of you,” Maxie said, hoping the edge in his voice wasn’t detectable. “You are dismissed. I will dress and make my way to Admiral Tailor’s quarters myself.”

There was a loud snap—the private’s boots clicking together, Maxie assumed—and the private hurried away in a flurry of fabric, disappearing down the hall. Maxie rubbed his right eye with his unoccupied hand and, turning back into his room, sighed noisily. Heading back toward his nightstand, taking up nearly half of the space in his enclosed quarters, Maxie placed the lantern down and opened the table drawer, rifling about for his eyewear—two pieces of thick, convex lenses attached on either end with an elastic band that went around his ears and connected across the bridge of his nose. During his adolescence, Maxie’s eyesight had grown to the point where functioning without some sort of apparatus became impossible. Indeed, even though he was now a serious captain of the British Royal Navy, he still felt humiliated every time he slipped the device over his eyes and around his ears.

And, as Maxie turned to the closet doors that contained his uniform, he’d remembered that sometimes, he could be truly blind—so blind that even his eyeglasses couldn’t see for him.

* * *

It was baffling indeed to be dressed to the nines in his surly officer’s coat, a brilliant sapphire with gold trimmings on the seams and sleeves, and his white waistcoat and knee-high shipman’s boots this early in the morning. It was stranger even to be standing in front of his commanding officer’s quarters, the entrance large and intimidating, even for a man such as himself. Maxie released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and adjusted the black cap, ensuring the brims were folded back just enough—all he was missing was his wig, but he hadn’t found the time to search for it in his cramped bedroom. He hoped Admiral Tailor wouldn’t mind. He knew what a stickler the man was for appearances.

Just as he lifted his gloved knuckle to rap on the door, a voice rattled the hinges from inside. “Captain Matheson,” it said, profound and bellowing, deep as the ocean. “Come in, please.”

Hand quavering somewhat, Maxie reached for the knob and twisted, pushing it open and entering the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Admiral Tailor’s quarters, being the commanding officer of the Liverpool branch of the Navy, did not squander in size as Maxie’s did—in fact, it was impressively large for a naval officer’s cabin. A bed, immaculately made and crisp, sat in the corner, seemingly dusty and underused. Beside it, a bedside table much like Maxie’s and closet took up only a fraction more of space. Far removed from the Admiral’s personal area was a set of chairs and a table, all just as decrepit and rotting as the rest of the furniture throughout the naval base. And there sat Admiral Tailor in the left chair, just barely illuminated by several flickering wall scones.

Admiral Tailor was a behemoth of a man, standing close to a metre above him and weighing stones more, Maxie was sure (and Maxie was an easy man to top in weight). He stretched every part of his admiral’s uniform, looking close to popping every button and join. Still, the man exuded the pomp and circumstance of a true British admiral—steely stare locked on Maxie, his attention focused, as if he were engaging an enemy in battle and not merely chatting with one of his underlings. Even Admiral Tailor’s Meowth, curled on his shoulders and purring lovingly, did not deter him for only a second. As portly as he was, Maxie was sure he had been giving a rank promotion for a reason.

With a dip of his round, moon-shaped head, peeking beneath his powdered white wig, Admiral Tailor gestured toward the empty chair. “Captain Matheson, I am pleased that you could come on such a short notice,” he said, his slightest words even creating authoritative tremors in Maxie’s spine. “Please, sit down. We have much to discuss.”

Maxie hurriedly took a seat, removing his hat in respect for his leader and placed it gingerly on the splinter-ridden tabletop. Mewling with excitement at the entrance of a new playmate, Meowth sprung down from Tailor’s shoulders and landed elegantly on the floor, scurrying toward Maxie to rub against his legs. Gently, Maxie tried to shake the feline Pokemon away, afraid of getting cat hair on his leggings, but Meowth persisted and Maxie eventually capitulated.

“I am sure that you’re wondering why I have called you here at such an early morning hour,” Admiral Tailor said. “You see, within the day, there has been a… situation occurring.” He nodded toward Maxie. “A situation that requires you, my best naval captain, to remedy.”

Maxie loosened. Clearly this wasn’t about his performance. “What do you need from me, sir?” he inquired.

The purple flame of the little candle at the center of the table began to weaken; Admiral Tailor frowned down at it and the object quivered, opening a pair of wild, inflamed red eyes that beheld Maxie with awe. Maxie hadn’t even noticed that the candle was actually a Litwick. He wondered how many Pokemon Admiral Tailor had at his disposal. “Do you remember the buccaneer, Archibald Connell?” the admiral asked. “The son of the African. How he was jailed upon charges of treason for attacking other British ships?”

_Archibald Connell._ Immediately, Maxie could almost taste the bitter Wailord fat powering the wall scones at the sound of that name. A hundred, possibly a thousand days of memories entered his mind all at once, the shore at high tide. “Yes,” he said, not as confidently as he could have hoped. “I sailed with him before I entered officer’s training.” They’d been stationed on the same buccaneer’s ship, but only Archie had remained a career pirate; Maxie chose to follow the path of a refined gentleman, not a barbarian. He chose to dutifully ignore the fact that back when he’d sailed with Archie, a part of him _loved_ the barbarism.

And maybe, possibly, it had something to do with Archie himself.

“I am aware,” Admiral Tailor said. Minutes had passed and Maxie was still intimidated by his tone. “He mentioned you in his defense before he was sentenced to death. A sentence…” Admiral Tailor absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the wood before continuing. “… he has escaped.”

Maxie was taken aback by these words. “Excuse me?” he echoed, startled. “Did you say escape?” He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised. He knew Archie well enough that no prison would have kept him for long.

“He was liberated by his first mate this afternoon,” Admiral Tailor said. “The naked woman, Shelly. His navigator took the upper floors of the penitentiary and freed his crew as well. They pilfered a Royal Navy ship in the harbor and have made off with the munitions, supplies, and valuables aboard. We cannot locate him and nor do we have the faintest notion of where he is going.” Admiral Tailor’s gaze settled fully on him and Maxie knew precisely where he was taking his end of the conversation.

“… you want me to go after him, sir?” Maxie somehow managed to dislodge the sentence in his throat and force it out. He hadn’t even been present at Archie’s court martial; he told himself it was simply because he didn’t want to distract the pirate when he should have been focusing on his future ends. The truth, however, fluttered in Maxie’s stomach like a flock of Beautifly and reminded him that he was just a coward—and that no matter how much he pretended, there was nothing he wanted more than to see that idiotic, bearded, gleeful face again. But there was nothing he wanted less than that reunion to be caused by a compulsory mission from the navy.

“Aye, Captain,” Admiral Tailor confirmed. “Orders from the high command. They know that you were stationed with Archie. Your history as crewmates makes you more than qualified to hunt down the criminal and bring him back to English soil. Your orders are to assemble your crew and set out by dawn. Find yourself a navigator and a first mate; I do not care who they are, as long as you disembark by daybreak. The buccaneer Connell is our highest priority. Do you understand, Captain?”

Maxie’s mouth was dry and his tongue useless as he racked his brain for a response. Truly, he was in no position to refuse orders from his commanding officer, though they were sudden and demanding. But never in his most farfetched dreams, surrounded by drowning and water as they were, would Maxie have expected to be woken up in the middle of the night to chase the embodiment of his past. When he’d heard the news of Archie’s arrest and trial date last week, he’d simply assumed that the gruff traitor would have his head lopped off in the Tower of London, as all men of his stature did eventually. He’d believed that this would be a swift end to not only Archie’s pain, but also his own.

“I understand,” Maxie said. “I have just the people in mind.”

“Have you any idea where he’s going?” asked the Admiral?

Maxie should have remembered that nothing with Archie was ever simple.

“I’ve a hunch,” Maxie replied.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another filler chapter; next chapter will also be a filler. Sorry about that. BUT! The story is plotted to become much more interesting after Chapter 3, so things will change. Keep your eyes peeled for future sex and action, which is what I know you guys are all really here for. (Let's be honest, I'm here for that too.)
> 
> Writing maritime fiction is hard. Ships are hard. The ocean is hard. This is why I wholeheartedly support Team Magma--you don't have a lingo for walking on the goddamned land. (I'm kidding. Sailing is fascinating and I'm learning a lot from research for this story.)
> 
> Also, I apologize for the burp in period language. I am trying to stick to Early Modern English, but I'm failing very badly as of late. Perhaps my practice will get better towards the end. The suspension of disbelief isn't good here. I'm working on that, but in the meantime, I apologize. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! I'm excited to see an audience forming for this fanfic. I would REALLY love it if you dropped a kudos, bookmarked this, or--even better--dropped me a comment about how I'm doing. 
> 
> You are all so lovely! <3

_Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean._

“Due west, ten degrees!”

The sea was always quiet, but not with Matt around, it wasn’t. Archie was amazed at how flawlessly the giant man carried his voice, leagues above the milling and murmurs of his normally noisy crew. Matt’s heavy hands twisted around the boat’s wheel on the helm, elevated against the deck swabbers and dwarfed by the sailors shouting from the crow’s nest above the main sail. Archie, who was leaning against the door of the captain’s quarters a deck down, smiled up at the hulking navigator, exuding a triumphant glow and radiant grin flashing his shark-like teeth. With a slight right tick of the spokes, Archie felt the gradual lurch of the massive ship his crew had stolen from Liverpool marina shift, adjusting beautifully to Matt’s skilled hands.

“Yeh needn’t shout out yer path, Midshipman!” Archie called, Matt’s beam contagious enough to grace his own face. “She’s got herself right where you need her.”

“Aye, Captain!” Matt cried. “She handles like a dream! No woman could compare. Not so much of a Midshipman anymore, am I, sir?” The sun ricocheted off Matt’s glistening, heat-cooked skin, a spectacular shade of smooth brown that he did not keep covered with a shirt of any kind, sweat dripping from his matted black hair. Matt preferred to keep the heat from the summer months away by sacrificing everything except his torn trousers and a dark blue sash about his hips—the color of Archie’s crew, made official when they’d plundered a Spanish indigo ship returning from the New World.

Archie noticed that his indigo bandana was starting to fall over his eyes; he reached behind his head and tied it a bit tighter. Unlike his navigator, he preferred to keep himself somewhat dressed. “No ranks in the rogue life, helmsman!” Archie laughed. “A midshipmen yer no longer.”

“What a relief!” Matt yelled back. “And here I thought I would be pacing midship in the navy for the rest of my life. You saved me, Captain! This is the best promotion I could have received!” Archie was well aware of how difficult it had been for Matt to progress past the junior officer cadet’s rank, as it was for any man that didn’t look even remotely British. Matt’s sheer size was terrifying in itself, but Archie discovered after recruiting the disgruntled man that he was a soft heart with his crew and a hard body in battle. Under his tutelage, Matt flourished in the buccaneer lifestyle. He resembled Archie—an adventurer restrained by the strict commandments of the English naval rigor, stuck in a career rut and unable to advance due to more than one poor decision.

_Truly, more than one._

“Why do halfwits bawl like children instead of meeting where they can speak?” Shelly’s warm, silvery voice encircled Archie’s ear and he turned to meet his first mate with a smile. She, too, chose to bare her chest and don nothing more than pantaloons and her sash, though her equipment was much more different than Matt’s. Early in her employment under Archie, Shelly chose to cease wearing blouses around the crew, with the simple logic that if her male crewmembers were allowed to go nude, then so was she. A day after she began patrolling the deck with her breasts out, a crewman had apparently made a lewd gesture toward her. The next hour, during roll call, that sailor was notoriously absent. During report, Shelly had told Archie that he’d “met with a nasty accident.”

“I think I’s the only one who wears clothes ‘round here,” Archie noted, motioning toward Shelly’s exposed chest. He then slapped a hand on her broad shoulder. “And to answer yer question, lass, halfwits have broken legs!” he said. “I jest. Now what do yeh need, Shelly?”

“If they do not, I will break them for you,” Shelly said. “Captain, where is Matt taking us? One would expect the leader of this vessel to inform his first mate of their destination.” One well-groomed eyebrow raised in Archie’s direction and suddenly, the magisterial pirate felt sheepish. Matt, though a member of the superior crew, had no reason to know of his plans firsthand, at least until his was organized. Shelly, however, was a different story—at his right hand, she needed to know every minute detail of the solemn, dangerous path mapped out in his head, in case he was at nature’s disposal.

Archie exhaled, his breath burdensome. “Aye, lass, yer makin’ sense,” he said. Shelly’s piercing blue eyes silently scrutinized him, studying Archie with years of acquaintance. In the back of his mind, Archie believed that his first mate knew him better than he knew himself. “How about this? We’ll go inside my quarters and talk, yea?” Tipping up from his slouched position against the doorframe, Archie pushed open the swinging entry into his cabin, signaling with a sweep of his wrist for Shelly to enter.

Shelly shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever pleases you, Captain,” she said. Sliding inside with the grace of an eel, Shelly evaporated into the darkness, skirting around the sunlight that came in from the sole porthole facing the starboard bow. As soon as she was gone, Archie looked up to Matt, who glanced down curiously. His face was in a pile of papers to his side and a sextant present in the hand that wasn’t clutching to the wheel spokes.

“Midshipman! I’m havin’ meself a talk with the first mate. Keep eyes forward and ears aft,” he said, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his orders.

“Aye-aye, Captain! Eyes forward and ears aft.” Matt grinned down at him. With a brief nod, Archie disappeared into his room behind Shelly.

* * *

The captain’s quarters on a British Royal Navy ship certainly left little to the imagination and even less to personal safety—the barred brig on the port side was tantamount to sleeping with a knife against his throat, Archie felt. He would have felt more secure with a prisoner next to his frothing, loyal crew rather than having the privilege to watch a hostage himself. Not that Archie was ever inside his quarters much anyhow—the shipman’s cot and writing desk at the center did not provide him with any interest or entertainment. Of course, he had a ship and a crew to captain, which proved to be extremely pressing and for all the right reasons.

Shelly had already helped herself to the solitary seat in Archie’s chambers, the chair pulled around to face the entrance as she crossed her long legs with a falsely demure air. “Well, I am here,” she said. Shelly was never one to mince words. Archie liked that about her.

Archie pointed to his desk. “Top drawer,” he stated. “Has all the answers yeh need, lass.”

Without wasting a moment, Shelly turned to Archie’s desk and opened the drawer he indicated, rifling about with a loud shuffle of papers before pausing. She slipped a glance at Archie, who nodded for her to continue. Slowly, as if she were moving a venomous Seviper in her hands, Shelly removed a leather-bound journal, locked with an elaborate clasp joining the covers. Its sapphire gleam was almost disquieting, the patterned red etchings jagged across the surface. At the top was a circle much in the style of the lines, each one of them arching up to meet it. The threaded binding was very frayed—Archie watched Shelly pluck a few of them cautiously before turning the book over in her hands and clearing her throat.

“And what’s this?” she asked.

It didn’t surprise him that she didn’t recognize the artifact. At first, when he’d found it while plundering a French ship several years ago, he hadn’t either. “Yeh see, Shelly, I fancy myself a folklorist,” Archie began. He ambled over to his bed, sitting down and causing a curved bend in the fabric. “When I was sailin’ as a cadet in simpler times, I studied legendary Pokemon. Rayquaza, Arceus, the Lake Spirits in the New World—just a few. I read up on the legends behind them as well. You know I’s not a religious man. Call it a… diversion, if yeh will.”

Shelly undid the clasp and flipped open to the first page and examined the writing. “We are hunting the sea leviathan Kyogre,” she said, flipping pages, completely eliminating any need for Archie to speak further. Archie was attempting to slip gracefully into his point, but as usual, his first mate chose to fill the silence for him. “Coordinates. Directions for subduing the beast. And, pray tell, where did you find this, sir?”

“Just a little somethin’ I picked up in me younger days,” Archie said vaguely. Shelly seemed to take that reply fine—pirates rarely disclosed where they’d stolen their possessions. “This is a journal from the era of Vikings. Has to be at least five hundred years old, I say. Old navigator from then took a crew and went to find Kyogre, just as we did, and ‘e kept a diary about it.” He (did something here, what the fuck Khannah). “I’ve read it from front to back. We are going to find and catch this ancient shrimp and bring her back to Britain. Good?”

There was an odd break between them, Shelly uncharacteristically pensive. She beheld Archie with her expression scrunched, as if gauging if Archie was being truly serious. “All right,” she finally said, closing the book. She stood and handed it back to Archie, who took it and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “I have only one question. Are we heading directly for Kyogre with a cloth over our crew’s eyes or do you have a plan in mind?”

With a trumpeting laugh, larger than life, Archie shook his head mirthfully. “Lass, ye have no faith in yer captain?” When Shelly only regarded him skeptically, both hands on her wide hips, Archie opened the journal and located the page that would answer his first mate. “We are fighting a god of lore, Shelly. If we go right there, I’d surely jeopardize every life on this pretty ship. We sailin’ south. Have yeh heard of the Shoal Cave?”

Shelly nodded. “It’s by Brittany,” she said, “in France. By the coast, under the cliffs of the shoreline.”

“Aye, and that’s where we be goin’,” said Archie. He opened the book wider so that the fragile glue on the binding cracked, turning the book to display a diagram drawn on the left-hand page. Shelly leaned in and narrowed her eyes, studying the perfect likeness of a spear and a delicate husk of what resembled a bell. “We need Shoal Salt and Shoal Shells to make these lovely things. Salt fer the harpoons, shells fer the bell.”

Once more, Shelly plucked the journal from Archie’s hands and studied the sketches more closely. She ran her hand over the paper, a dusting of black charcoal coming away clean at her fingers. “What are we using these for?” she asked.

“The Shell Bell is known for healing injured Pokemon,” Archie explained, “but it has a second use. It’s written under the art. ‘ _The sound of the Shell Bell angers the mighty Leviathan of Legend, Kyogre.’_ ” Archie spoke the words verbatim, having memorized them without trouble. “An’ the salt harpoons? Kyogre dwells in the water, but only the salt from the Shoal Cave can dry its skin. Makes it weak. We tip the harpoons in the salt and stab the big fish with ‘em. The bugger lives in the center of the Atlantic—turn the page.” Shelly did as she was told. “Matt’s got his hand on those coordinates. That’s where we endin’ up.”

Shelly peered openly at the book, as if contemplating her next words. She opened her mouth once, then closed it, and then opened it again. By the third time, she seemed to have collected her thoughts. “Why?” she said. Nothing more—one word, and somehow, it was the one that knocked the wind out of Archie’s sails.

“What do yeh mean, Shelly?” Archie questioned.

“I will not reject your ideals, because I am your first mate, and she is devoted to her captain and her ship,” Shelly stated. “I am an extension of your authority and I must make your intentions clear to the crew. But what I truly must know is—why? A sense of adventure? Danger? What is the heart of this matter?” She shut the journal and looked up at him, cornering her captain with her steady eyes, calm as the ocean after a tempest. That was Shelly—she was dubious, doubted issues, and questioned ulterior motives. Archie was blessed to have her by his side, sharp and all-seeing as she was, but that meant that he would also come under her criticism from time to time.

“Yer challenging me?” Archie said, trying to get under her skin.

But, just as he expected, Shelly was having none of it. “If not me, then who else?” she pointed out. “We are on a vessel in the ocean. Matt is a good man, but he is not dogged enough to stand up to you. I am your first mate. I trust you, but I also trust you enough to listen to me.”

Archie nodded. “Lass, yer word is as good as mine on this ship,” he said. “Yeh wouldn’t be me first mate if it wasn’t.” He skipped a beat, thinking of whether he should tell her the truth, and settled on a half-shell. “I want it to prove somethin’ to England. Take ‘er home and show the Queen that I ain’t a failure of a pirate for the crown.”

“You are a criminal on the run,” Shelly said. “What a foolish thought. Britain will not absolve you of treason for a Pokemon, however legendary in nature. Kyogre is not a cure for your ailment. You know that better than anybody else.” Shelly’s words stung, an acerbic Beedril, and Archie would be damned if he said she was wrong. She arched her eyebrows and placed the journal back into the drawer, as if placing it out of sight and out of mind. “Now Archie, tell me the whole truth.”

“I can’t,” he replied. _That_ was the whole truth. If he were to explain to Shelly the “whole truth” for seeking one of the most treacherous savage Pokemon in human existence—proved only by the existence of this Viking journal and ancient oral tradition—and that was that he was not chasing an invisible specter for fame or safety. If he had what he truly wanted and he could have achieved it by sitting and rotting in the Tower of London for the rest of his short life, he would have done so. That was the whole truth. If he had what he truly wanted, he would have gladly gone to the executioner’s axe and not follow fairytales based on what a deceased seaman wrote five centuries in the past. That was the whole truth. But to reach that whole truth, the only path before Archie was the one that led to Kyogre.

“Then give me something else,” Shelly told him. “I care not what it is. Something other than a service to the country we both know you detest.”

Archie glanced back at the closed drawer on his desk, where Shelly had replaced the journal. He wondered how many fingers had touched it—there were his and Shelly’s of course, and the author, but he was curious if that man’s crew had run a finger along its spine or flipped his pages. What about the Spaniard merchants and historians that owned it before Archie plundered their ship? How many of them took it as seriously as he did?

Other than the writer, Archie knew one. And that man’s fingers had touched it, too. And smiled at Archie. And touched him with those fingers as well.

“There is something in Britain that I have left behind,” Archie said, “and this is the only way to get it back.”

 _That_ was the whole truth.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems a little bit rushed. I've been trying to get it done ASAP before work tonight. I'm going to be really busy until tomorrow afternoon, so I figured I might as well hurry and get something done now. 
> 
> Last filler chapter before shit starts to go down. ARE YOU READY, KIDS?
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! It really brightens my day to see people reading this. I would love to keep hearing from you all. Even though I'm not much of a replier, I AM reading each and every one of your comments, so please continue giving me your feedback. 
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter!

Maxie was always amazed at how well Courtney carried herself in a skirt and her black shoes, slightly heeled, very different from the leather boots that all the men in the crew wore. She dressed conservatively—buttoned blouse, minute waist cinched with a corset that projected her small breasts forward and chin high, her bobbed strawberry blonde hair framing her heart-shaped face. Still, despite her feminine air and seemingly impractical dress, Courtney maneuvered herself with better ease than any man on the boat as she approached Maxie, unfurling the new cartographer’s map she was carrying, having received one by Royal command as soon as Maxie appointed her as his navigator.

“Captain, have you seen my sextant?” inquired the young woman, her coal-gray eyes smoldering in light annoyance. “I fear one of our crown’s brutes has made off with it. I certainly hope that I will not have to use my second one; that one was hewn with high-cut brass. I made it myself.”

Maxie glanced up from the ship’s wheel, having taken over for Courtney briefly while she went to retrieve her navigator’s tools. “I fear that I do not,” Maxie said, disgruntled that his junior crew was immature enough to treat a woman of Courtney’s skill and stature with such disrespect, and they’d hardly journeyed more than a league from Liverpool. “Did you recognize the identity of the man who stole it?”

“I am afraid not,” Courtney said. “He was wearing a private’s uniform and a white wig. Essentially, identical to every other crewmember on this ship, excluding you, Tabitha, and myself.” She pointed at Maxie’s eyewear. “You have a large smudge on your left lens, sir.”

Blinking once, Maxie suddenly noticed slightly cloudy vision and moved to wipe away the offending mark on them. Courtney had caught something he hadn’t noticed yet again—something she’d done since they were both children, as Maxie had been the somewhat absentminded leader and Courtney his pragmatic second set of eyes. She’d grown up in an economic situation similar to Maxie’s: wealthy but removed parents, living in a sandstone mansion by the ocean and learning how to play with one another with only the sea as their toy. Courtney was, in fact, Maxie’s next-door neighbor, and he wasn’t outside and frolicking, he often found her sketching highly detailed maps of fantastical realms through the frosted pane of their bedroom windows. Of course, upon reaching adulthood, Courtney had to abandon all dreams of being a cartographer’s apprentice or nautical navigator to prime herself for marriage. No hopes of her desired trade or military training remained; she was a woman, according to her family, and she needed to uphold her gendered duty. Upon Maxie’s induction into the Royal Navy, several rich suitors were courting her. 

When Maxie heard of Archie’s escape, he knew that he could kill yet another bird with a single stone and rescue Courtney for the time being. There was no person in Liverpool, male or female, that knew maps and directions as intimately as Courtney—not even master cartographers for the navy could scantly amount to Courtney’s razor precision and sharp attention. If he was going to sail directly into the Atlantic Ocean, pursuing the most elusive man he’d ever met, he wanted no one else at his side other than Courtney. No man with a bridal price could buy his genius of a friend—at least not while they were gone.

“Where is Tabitha?” Maxie asked as soon as his eyewear was clean enough to see through, tucking the pliable bands back behind his ears again. “I would like to have a brief meeting with him. I must inform him of our position.”

_Crrrrreak._ “I was already on my way, sir!” cried a voice from the bottom of the stairs leading up to the bridge, the helm’s staircase complaining under the weight of its climber. With a heavy puff, breaths weighted and strained, Maxie watched his first mate clamber to the top, sweat beading his doughy forehead, his thick head of black hair sticking to his salty skin. Tabitha was a man quite literally larger than life—he was far and away the most corpulent man in all of the British Royal Navy. Even though the former midshipman explained away his weight as being due to a medical ailment, this did not protect him from ridicule by his fellow crewmembers. His white waistcoat was stretched to the very periphery of the woven threads, buttons threatening to pop at any time. His blue officer’s coat did nothing to conceal his enormous stomach.

Courtney was ruthless as the gasping first mate arrived. “Perhaps it is time to remove thyself from the mess?” she suggested. Reaching over, Maxie gave her a scolding slap on the wrist and Courtney scowled at her captain.

Tabitha glared at her. “Women should not speak such vile insults to a man,” he hsised. “Know your place on this ship.”

“Aye, I do,” Courtney returned, “and it is at the wheel, steering her rudder. If you would rather not get lost in a glacier, I suggest you treat women with respect.”

“Silence!” Maxie snapped. Tabitha had been his appointed first mate for a number of years now, and while he could think of no better second-in-command to carry out his orders, he was rather easily offended (possibly due to consistent observations about his weight). Time and again, Tabitha had gotten into fights with junior crewmembers on other ships, and Maxie had to pull him out of them before things got too out of hand. Coupled with Courtney’s stalwart independence, Maxie realized that he should have thought his choices for a main crew a bit better. “Arguments do not become of officers. I need both of you to get along if we are going to succeed in this mission.”

“But she isn’t an officer,” Tabitha muttered.

“She is our navigator,” Maxie instructed, “and she is your equal. Do as she told and be kind.” Maxie then turned to Courtney. “And you need to bite your tongue and not say such rude things.”

Both officers rolled their eyes, aggrieved by being forced to play nice, but they eventually voiced a “yes, Captain” in disjointed unison.

“Now, Tabitha, I am glad you could join us,” Maxie said. He gestured for Courtney to take the wheel back from him, which she gladly did. “I have to discuss our path with you two. Courtney, I have already given you the coordinates to the Shoal Cave off the coast of Brittany, have I not?”

Before Courtney could answer, Tabitha frowned straightaway. “France?” he complained. “I thought we were chasing after the pirate dog Archibald Connell?”

Maxie huffed. “If you’d be silent and let me speak,” he said, “you shall understand that following him is precisely what we are doing. I know this buccaneer quite well, and I know for a fact that he is headed to the Shoal Cave. We will have to time our arrival to correspond with the low tide, for the cave is not accessible during the highest pull.”

As Courtney produced a second sextant to replace the one that had been stolen, Tabitha regarded Maxie with curiosity. “Sir, I apologize for being so demanding,” he said, “but could you tell me why he is headed to Shoal Cave? That is a very strange place—there is not even any treasure. Is he hiding there?”

“Do you know of Kyogre?” Maxie asked him.

“The god monster of the sea?”

“Indeed,” Maxie confirmed. “Archibald and I served on the same buccaneer’s ship together in our privates’ days. During one particular plunder on a Spanish merchant vessel, he uncovered a bound journal that contained directions to finding and battling the leviathan of legend. We studied it often and with extraordinary caution. He constantly alluded to wanting to sail for it, but I considered it too foolish to pursue. When I chose to enter the main service, Archibald took the journal, but…” Maxie tapped one of his temples twice with a finger. “… I memorized every word. The first direction is to gather Shoal Salt to construct spears for fighting Kyogre and Shoal Bells to duplicate the Shell Bell. Therefore, that is where he must proceed first. But we will meet him there.”

“A… are you certain?” Tabitha said, his brow furrowing in concern like a nervous Furret. “Are you certain he will not try and divert you by going somewhere else first? The pirate dog is a crafty fellow.”

“Crafty indeed,” Maxie agreed, “but I think he knows that he cannot elude me forever.” He nodded at Courtney, who had taken the wheel and was adjusting their position by several degrees. “And even if he does not head directly there, we shall intercept him.”

Tabitha bowed his head. “I suppose I understand,” he said, “and I echo your orders to the men below.”

Maxie folded his hands behind his back. His captain’s uniform seemed so tight, oppressive, and stiff—it seemed too restrictive for any kind of rapid movement. He hoped that he would not have to engage Archie’s crew in combat: his clothing would kill him before any rogue with a pistol did. “Excellent,” he crowed. “You are dismissed, Tabitha. Please gather the sailors promptly. They must be prepared for any possible engagement with the enemy.”

“Right away,” repeated Tabitha. “Oh, but one last thought, sir.”

“What is it?” Maxie asked.

“You have a smudge on your eyewear.” Tabitha pointed this time at the right lens, and to Maxie’s chagrin, yet another smear had made its way on the thick glass. Tabitha saluted him and turned away on his heel, lumbering back down the helm stairs to the entire deck as his captain struggled to clean the eyewear with the sleeve of his uniform.

Courtney glanced up from her map. “Again, captain?” she teased, a smirk upturning the corner of her mouth.

Maxie scrunched his nose at her. “At ease, navigator,” he said, an edge to his tone. However, the moment he said this, his ship decided to do the opposite—the boat jostled, shuddering suddenly, as if grazing an obstacle. Maxie stumbled to one side, gripping the wooden railing and Courtney scrambled to realign the wheel. Maxie’s crew, going about their duties peacefully, immediately hurried, a few men losing their footing and sliding with a direct crash into Tabitha. The southern wind picked up, howling in the sails, and just as Courtney began to veer the ship due west, Maxie saw a monumental blue figure coast beneath the hull. Large flippers beat backward, sending tremors of water that made the ship bob at the shocking waves. A geyser of air arose from the blowhole of the distorted figure, breathing in time with Maxie’s relieved groan.

“It was a Wailord,” he said. He craned his neck back to look at Courtney. “A Wailord,” he restated. He felt his stomach turn out of nowhere, but he forced the bile that was rising in his throat down. As Courtney looked to him with eyes of pure solace, Maxie was overcome with a bout of giddiness, his head feeling light.

“Captain?” Courtney fretted. “You look positively green.”

Without warning, Maxie was aware of the staggering ocean beneath them, shivering back and forth with the sway of a clumsy waltz. He was aware of the wind, the salty air that filled his nostrils, and the fact that he was leagues upon leagues from any dry, safe land. His vision blurred, and it wasn’t because he was poor of seeing.

Maxie turned from Courtney and, leaning over the ship, released his breakfast into the sea below.

* * *

 

_“Yeh know, Maxie, if yeh ain’t got the sea legs, yeh could always be in the armed guard.” Archie’s sensual, rumbling baritone was behind him as Maxie heaved and gagged over the side of the boat. A comforting hand was on his back, rubbing soothingly and with some pity. Maxie had not even consumed much food for tea, and yet here he was, unable to keep even a bit of it down._

_Private Matheson moaned loudly, his situation not being helped by staring right at the ugly sea. “Aaaaaarchie,” he whimpered. Perhaps the man was right—Maxie had spent his first day on a royal naval buccaneer’s ship vomiting, seasickness causing him to be weak and weary. It was their first assignment together, and Maxie had been excited to set sail, but it seemed his body preceded him._

_In spite of his situation, Archie chuckled. “If yeh weren’t hacking yer stomach into the ocean, I’d believe yeh were callin’ my name for a different reason.”_

_Somehow, Maxie managed to stand back upright. It took all of his strength to not fall back into Archie’s arms, ready to faint. He curled his lips downward at the muscular, dark-skinned young man. “You are disgusting,” he whined._

_At that Archie outright laughed. “Yeh wake me up in the middle of the night to make sure yeh don’t fall into the sea while yer heavin’ and_ I’m _the nasty one?” Playfully, the hand rubbing his back came around to run its fingers through Maxie’s bright red hair, still vibrant despite the darkness. The other gripped Maxie’s waist, steadying him, and Maxie was close to melting into the touch. “I’d give yeh a hug if yer breath didn’t smell like yer spew. Maybe yeh ought to think about requesting a transfer.”_

_“No!” Maxie said without thought. “And serve without you? Never say such a thing again!”_

_Archie snorted. “We won’t be doin’ much if all yeh can do is vomit,” he observed. “Say, yer a wealthy boy, so what happens if yeh get promoted up a few ranks and yer still gettin’ sick? Ain’t much fer appearances if yer crew watches yeh do this every other day.”_

_With a huff, Maxie leaned into Archie, pressing his nose into his shoulder. “I would never want a promotion if you were not here to serve under me,” he said. “No admiral would promote a seasick waif such as myself.”_

_Archie smiled into Maxie’s hair. “I think yeh’d be surprised,” he responded. “Now, back to bed, Private Matheson.”_

_“Not yet, Private Connell,” Maxie said. “We should wait in case I have another bout.”_

_“If yeh say so.”_

_The stars were particularly vibrant at night from the ocean, and even amid the impenetrable black and without his precious eyewear, Maxie could see enough to watch Archie’s arms tuck around him in the warmest of embraces, holding him without regard to his foul breath._

_Maxie didn’t feel so ill anymore._


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slight gore and violence in this chapter. 
> 
> STUFF IS GOING TO HAPPEN FROM NOW ON. I'm a writer, but I can't put anything more eloquently than that. Sorry. (Also, I'm in my sociology 101 lecture class and am posting this in secret, so don't be too loud. Sssh.)
> 
> Again, thank you for the comments and kudos! (I've been trying to reply to comments, but I seem to be stuck in a rut.) I love you all. Seriously, I'm hysterical at the fact that I have an audience. I've missed writing for groups of people so much. Additionally, I've been seeing a lot of pirate AU Hardenshipping, Seamountshipping, and Alphafemaleshipping art on tumblr lately and it makes me so happy, whether or not this fic inspired some of it. Keep up the good work, guys. You are wonderful. 
> 
> Please enjoy this sad and yet somehow simultaneously adorable chapter.

The mouth of the Shoal Cave, despite being a part of French territory, was largely unguarded by the French navy. Archie assumed it was because the cave had already been searched from corner to corner during bouts of low tide, the greedy explorers combing the soft sand within for ancient buried treasure and artifacts. There was simply nothing of value left worth looking for. Besides, even at low tide—as it was now—the mouth was still completely submerged and impossible to access through boat alone.

“It startles me how easy this seems,” Shelly noted to him as some of the junior crewmen dropped anchor by the cave on a sunless afternoon, a few days having passed since their escape from England. He had called Shelly and Matt into his cabin to discuss his plan for retrieving the items within. “Are you certain that nothing lays in wait for us here?”

“Aye, Captain,” Matt agreed, sextant and map tucked beneath his strapping arm. “Your first mate raises a valid question. This seems very still for such a sacred place.”

Archie did not respond at first; his slid the cloth of his blue sash over the gleaming hilt of his sword, sheathing it in its scabbard once the pliant metal shone to his satisfaction. His hands free, he reached for his personal navy-grade pistol lying on his desk, checking the barrel to see that it was loaded with proper gunpowder and lead pellets. He took the crimped edge of his belt again, pausing to polish the ornate engravings on the side. Shelly and Matt stared, waiting for an answer, but Archie chose to take his time. With a click, he finished loading the weapon and handed it to Matt, the butt pointed toward his navigator.

“Matt, I am appointing you to keep watch over my men,” he said. “Take my pistol and protect with your life.”

Hesitantly, Matt took the gun, turning it over once in his hands and indicating its weight before sliding it into his own belt. Calmly, Archie removed his white shirt, bunched the fabric in one hand and tossing the ball behind his cot. Neither of his right hands said a word as Archie rubbed one of his exposed shoulders, his tanned skin a starless dawn in the dusk leaking in from his porthole. As Archie reached for the drawstrings on his pantaloons, Shelly spoke up.

“Sir, why choose Matt?” she inquired. “I mean no disrespect to our navigator; he is a large man and surely intimidating in battle. But alongside your first mate, I am also your combats expert. Would it not make sense to put me in this position?”

“Hardly,” Archie responded, “because I need yeh by my side in that cave.” His trousers pooled at his feet, revealing his shapely legs. Archie tightened the makeshift loincloth around his hips, ensuring that the wear was sufficiently cinched. “The only way to enter without suspicion is to swim there. You are an expert diver. We shall go together to find the salt and the shells.” He nodded at her. “Yeh may wish to keep yer pantaloons, but I be remainin’ in this. Helps me swim faster.”

Shelly grimaced in annoyance. “Arceus, Captain, I already expose my breasts. I have no qualms with leaving behind the rest of my clothing.” With that, she too dropped her indigo pantaloons and mirrored Archie’s tightening of his underwear. She wore a loincloth much like his; it seemed that she had been anticipating going with him, Archie realized. The white fabric bunched up around her slender waist, tied off on one side with a haphazard knot.

“Glad to hear it, lass!” Archie exclaimed. “We set out now. We need ta get inside before the tide rolls back in.” Archie pointed to the door. “Ready?”

“Wait!” Matt exclaimed. The giant, strangely flustered, stood with the pistol in his quavering hand. “Captain, sir, I haven’t an understanding of how to fire a weapon from my hand. I was only on cannons before I was a midshipman!” The fear was evident in his eyes—it was a novice’s anxiety, and though somewhat cruel, it made Archie chuckle.

“Midshipman, yeh point the barrel at yer enemy and pull the trigger,” he explained. “Ye’ll hit ‘em eventually.”

With that, Shelly and Archie left the cabin with Matt in nervous pursuit.

* * *

Archie was amazed at now natural of a swimmer Shelly was. Though the murky French sea around them, he could slightly make out her slim figure, darting ahead with the eagerness and swift movement of a Huntail in bay waters. They’d dove off the side of the ship into the ocean blue, Archie ahead of his first mate, but Shelly had pulled forward almost immediately. He relied on her wild black ringlets, spread around her in an agile billow with each forward thrust, to be his guiding beacon.

They were just below the surface, the grey light from the heavens scarcely piercing the water. The ship had anchored not far from the entrance of the cave, but the swim felt as if eons were passing overhead, and for a few brief moments, Archie was afraid that he and Shelly had gotten lost. But, as soon as his worry arose, it subsided when Shelly turned back and gestured upward. Small bubbles trickled from the corners of her mouth, suggesting that they swim toward the light. Archie agreed—he needed a breath as well. However, to his surprise, they submerged into a pocket full of musty air, reeking with the sharp tang of salt and stone dust. Archie looked up to see a ceiling full of stalactites, gleaming white amid the lack of discernable sun in the Shoal Cave. In fact, the entire cave was blinding—every bit of rock wall and formations consisted entirely of Shoal Salt.

Shelly appeared beside him, inhaling deeply. “Are you going to keep treading water or head ashore?” she gasped, splashing toward a tiny beach nearby the back edge of the cave. Wordlessly, Archie followed, paddling until his feet made contact with solid ground, the salt-infused sand rough between his toes. Shelly moved onto land first, shaking the water off her skin and wringing it from her loincloth and long hair. Archie came after her and did his best to brush the water from his beard.

As soon as Archie was fully out of the water, the first thing he noticed was a gale of chill enveloping him. Involuntarily, he shivered. Shelly did the same. “Arceus, it is the summer season,” she hissed, wrapped her arms around her mostly nude self to try and generate heat. “Why is this cave so cold?”

“Must be the mouth,” Archie responded, teeth chattering. “It is isolated from the outside; the air must be sealed in by the ocean. As interestin’ as this conversation be, lass, shall we get what we came for and leave before we freeze?”

“Agreed,” Shelly nodded. She slapped her heavy, soaked hair to one side and scanned the floor of the mid-sized cave for salt pillars; finally, she located a group a few meters from the small beach. “Captain, over there,” she indicated.

“Thank yeh,” Archie said. “I will collect the salt if you comb the beach for shells.” Archie made his way over to the salt pillars as Shelly bent down, sifting her fingers through the sand, trying to locate a fully intact Shoal Shell.

Archie kneeled before the stalagmites—hefty balusters that stood close to Shelly in height, but were thinner than his forearm. At first, Archie was afraid that he would have to travel back to the ship for a saw to break the pillars, but it pleased him to discover that he could easily snap them into halves. As he gathered the salt, the sickening cracks absorbed by the dense walls of the cave, the collection under his arm began to overflow. Unsurprisingly, one fell to the ground.

The pirate would have been inclined to ignore it if he hadn’t heard a whine sound from the spot where the piece had fallen. Archie stopped and glanced down to see a single Spheal sitting at his feet, likely having been investigating the new visitors to its cave. The pillar had fallen on its head and it cried as it touched the welt, the salt stinging its moist blubber. Feeling bad for hurting the baby Pokemon, Archie knelt down, placing the Shoal Salt at his feet and stroking the Spheal tenderly.

“Ssssh, that’ll do, little scamp,” he comforted. “I didn’t mean to hurt yeh. I guess yeh just wanted to come over and say hello.” Archie’s words fell on deaf ears as the child continued to wail, loud and bitter at his assailant. It did not shy from Archie’s touch, but shook instead beneath his hand. Archie barely heard the enraged roar that boomed, covering the sobbing of the Spheal by many octaves, as he was too busy trying to calm the baby Pokemon down.

However, he did hear Shelly’s sudden warning. “Archie, behind you!” she shouted. But before Archie could react properly, he was slammed with the force of the gods and knocked to the floor, the wind sucked from his sails. A looming blue shadow hulked over him, a flash of white paunch and thick ivory tusks coming into view. He could not get up in time before he was mauled by huge force, nearly crushing him beneath its weight. Dripping frothing saliva down on his face, Archie saw the blazing yellow eyes of a Walrein as it reared its head back.

“Blast!” Archie barked. “Walrein!” He managed to shift his head to one side quickly before Walrein’s tusk gored the ground beside him, causing a large crack from the force of the bone’s blow. The Walrein became stuck, unable to move with its tusk impaled in the salt floor. It bellowed atop him, the vibrations from its voice shaking Archie through its layers of fat.

“I am coming, Captain!” Shelly yelled.

“Hurry!” Archie answered. He was pinned and, other than fruitlessly clawing his hands against the broad sternum of the Pokemon, he could not get the Walrein to move. With a click, the Walrein struggled enough to remove its tusk and raise its head once more. Eyes ablaze with pure anger, it pulled it head back again to attack and, with nowhere to go, Archie shut his tight and braced himself to receive a tusk straight into his skull.

The blow never came. After what felt like minutes, Archie cracked one eyelid open to see the Walrein’s expression suspended in eternal shock, its mouth open and pupils shrunk to pebbles. A light crimson stream trickled down its shoulder, dark red with matted clots of blood. Shelly was at its shoulder, having driven the longest, sharpest salt pillar she could find directly into its heart. The Walrein coughed once and, with a final exhale, fell to one side and collapsed, its flippers slumping gracelessly on its belly. Shelly came around to Archie’s side, breathing hard, the panic in her eyes slowly disappearing as each minute passed by. Immediately, she put out a hand to Archie, who grabbed it and allowed himself to be pulled up by his first mate.

“Yeh saved me life, lass,” Archie mumbled. “I’m in yer debt.”

“Nonsense,” Shelly replied, her voice trembling in the aftermath. “I did my duty as your first mate, nothing more.”

There was a short silence between them before Archie cleared his throat. He decided that they needed to leave the cave as soon as possible before they attracted the attention of any more wild Pokemon. “Did yeh get a shell?” he asked, leaning down to pick up the salt pillars in his arms. “We should leave, fast.”

“Yes,” Shelly said. She reached into her underwear and retrieved a Shoal Shell, holding out the perfect object in her hand. “This was the only whole one I found, luckily.”

“One’s all we need,” Archie responded. “Now let’s—” Unfortunately, just as he was about to give the order to swim back to the ship, a tiny whimper made its way to his ear, arising from the deceased Walrein. He looked down to see the Spheal from earlier nudging the stiff body with its snout, snuffling and nipping at the older Pokemon’s thick skin. It tried to curl against the Walrein’s waning warmth and when it found that the elder was not responding to its movements, the Spheal let out an excruciating mewl of grief, eyeing the Walrein for any signs of life. Archie, who was turning back to the ingress of the ocean, interrupted himself and watched carefully.

“Captain, what are you doing?” Shelly asked. Most of her body was already under the surface, ready to swim back. “We must leave now, before we attract any more attention. There could be a herd here.”

“… No,” Archie said. “I think it was just the little scamp and his mum ‘ere.” Without giving Shelly a backward glance, Archie scurried to the Spheal and scooped it up in his empty arm before heading back to the water, the baby Pokemon not putting up any sort of a fight. Shelly regarded him with shock and disgust on her face.

“Captain!” she snapped. “What are you doing? Unhand that Pokemon at once!”

“I can’t leave ‘im behind to starve, Shelly,” Archie explained, waist-deep in the water now. The Spheal squealed at the contact with the cold liquid; it splashed with its miniature flippers with reserved glee. “I think that was ‘is mother. She heard him makin’ noise and thought I was a predator; it wasn’t her fault. He will not have anyone to take care of ‘im. He’ll die here. I’m takin’ ‘im back to the ship with us.”

“We haven’t the resources to care for him,” Shelly shot back. “We need to save the food for our crew.”

Archie glowered at her. “As I know very well, lass,” he said gruffly. “I can catch some fish for ‘im when he’s hungry. We are surrounded by an ocean, in case yeh didn’t notice.” He squeezed the Spheal closer in his arm, who made a noise of happiness to be hugged so closely to a warm body again.

Shelly, not one to back down from a provocation, glared back for a short beat before shrugging her shoulders in irritation. “Fine, make this choice to take on such a burden,” she scolded. “But do not complain to me when you find it difficult to swim back with both arms occupied.” With that, she disappeared beneath the waves, a headlong kick sending a spray of ocean water in Archie’s face as she faded under the surface.

Archie couldn’t help but laugh. “Isn’t she somethin’ else, little one?” he cooed to the Spheal. “For a buccaneer, she has fire in her soul. But that is why I trust her.” With beady eyes, the Spheal looked up at him, affectionate and high-strung, his gaze reflecting the pain and worry he was experiencing from the loss of his mother. Archie assumed that the baby had not witnessed the death of his mother; otherwise, he would not be responding with such gratitude to a perfect stranger of another species. Still, Archie was glad—he had not had a Pokemon companion for a number of years now, and he needed a battle-trained protector and friend.

Reaching over with the arm stuffed with salt pillars, Archie managed to poke the Spheal’s nose with a finger. “Now, don’t look at me like that, little scamp,” he said. “I’ll take good care of yeh, you hear? I’ll be yer mum from now on. How does that sound to yeh?”

The Spheal sighed and yawned, clearly growing tired from the exhausting events of the past hour, and Archie smiled. Taking that as affirmed consent, Archie dodged underwater once more, propelling his body through the water with a few firm movements of his legs.

It was quite hard to swim without using his arms, but Archie would not say anything.

* * *

 

_Almost two decades before the Walrein attack, Archibald had found himself in a similar position. He had once been a foolish boy, too friendly to wild Pokemon, even and especially those too dangerous to interact with. And it was a young boy with vibrantly red hair who found him pinned to the ground with his forearm shoved into the foaming mouth of an enraged Mightyena one evening, after Archibald had felt sorry for the limping and starving feral dog and tried to feed it meat while walking back on the trail from the fields to his hut. This was, of course, before Archibald understood the consequences of playing with ferocity._

_“Get away!” shouted a mysterious voice, clear as a bell and as soothing as one, as Archie feared that he’d have his arm bitten off and have to explain to his mother that he could never work in the fields with the other slaves again. The Mightyena, determined to dominate its prey, yelped suddenly and let go of Archibald’s arm as a large branch came down on the nape of its neck. It jumped off, revealing its tiny assailant, half its size and much lighter but still intimidating as it wielded the monstrous bough like a rapier. The pale-skinned boy sallied again, whacking the Mightyena on its nose harshly. With a howl, the Mightyena retreated into the woods, back from whence it came._

_The boy dropped the branch and, without even considering Archibald’s very different appearance from his own, helped him up. “Are you all right?” the young champion said. “I was walking home when I saw that Mightyena hurt you. I had to help.”_

_“Thank you,” Archibald said, nervous in spite of his former situation. His mother had taught him to speak to white Britons with reverence, lest he might be in trouble for treating one as an equal. “Er, young master, I thank you for saving my life.”_

_The red-haired boy frowned. Archibald noticed for the first time how angular and defined his facial features were, shadows cast from his cheekbones in the late afternoon sun. “Do not call me master,” he said. “I am a boy, just like you.” He held out his hand. “Please hold my hand I will walk you home. I do not want you to become lost or injured again.”_

_Staring at the open palm of his savior, Archibald had scruples taking it. What would his mother say? What would_ anyone _say, seeing a half-African child and a British boy walking hand-in-hand? He heard such horrible things about his mother and himself simply by being who they were, but he couldn’t imagine the repercussions of actually associating with a white Briton. But Archibald was still scared from the attack and feared that the Mightyena would return, so he reassured himself that if they hurried, he could get home and avoid being seen with a member of higher society. Reluctantly, Archibald grabbed the boy’s hand and the pair began walking together._

_“Where do you live?” the boy inquired._

_“Just at the end of the road,” Archibald instructed. “Not far from where we are now.” He noticed the convulsions in his tone and tried to hide them with a swallow, but the boy beside him gripped his hand with sympathy. In an instant, Archibald felt curiously better. He gave a sidelong glance at the boy, his vermillion hair aglow in the sunset, and he felt his face turn the same color._

_“My name is Maximilian,” said the boy. “What is yours?”_

_“Archibald,” Archibald murmured._

_They shared a mutual silence before Maximilian spoke up. “That is a very long name,” he observed. “I suggest that I give you a nickname.”_

_Archibald looked over to him and wrinkled his nose. “Your name is long too,” he protested. “You are one to talk.”_

_Maximilian giggled and Archibald wondered if he had just heard the loveliest sound in the world. “Then you can give me a nickname as well,” he compromised. “Could I call you Archie?”_

_Archibald pondered this for a moment. “Indeed,” he agreed, “as long as I can call you Maxie. That fits you nicely.”_

_“Very well,” Maxie said._

_They strolled in peace for the remainder of the trip, their footsteps in unison until they reached the doorstep of Archie’s home—an enclosed, one-room shack of sorts made out of bricks salvaged from Archie’s father’s scrap materials, a roof made out of sheet stone so brittle that it might as well have been straw. For the first time in his life, Archie looked upon his home that his mother had worked so hard to build for them with shame—he did not want his new friend to see him living in such abject poverty._

_To his surprise, however, Maxie brightened upon seeing his hut. “What a wonderful home!” he said cheerfully. “I would like to live here. It seems to be such a comforting place. It must be very warm inside.”_

_“Oh.” Archie was taken aback, but he tried not to express it. “Well, perhaps I can ask my mother if you would like to come in.”_

_“I am afraid I must leave now,” Maxie said, “but I will come back tomorrow. Do you want to play together? I know places in the city where we can go and explore.”_

_Archie’s heart sank. “I cannot,” he said sadly. “I must be up at dawn to work.”_

_Maxie was adamant. “When do you finish work?” he continued, dogged. “We shall play when you are finished.”_

_“I am finished by this same time every day,” Archie told him._

_Grinning Maxie let go and, abruptly, engulfed Archie in a warm, friendly hug. Archie felt his body heat up again and his heart thrum harder in his chest, desperate to escape. “Good!” he said. “Then I will be at your home tomorrow this time to play.” Maxie pulled away, but before he departed, he leaned over and gave Archie a wet kiss on the cheek. “I will be back, I promise. And we will fight all the Mightyena in the world together.” Before Archie could say anything, Maxie had turned and dashed away on the opposite end of the path._

_He wasn’t able to repay him for the kiss on the cheek until the next evening, and as they played in the darkening woods, Archie was delighted to see that Maxie’s face bcame exactly the same vermillion color as his hair, just as he had done to Archie._


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Euuuuurrrgh, this is such a short chapter. I didn't have much time between homework and exams to make anything longer. 
> 
> IN ADDITION, I have a friend coming over tomorrow for spring break, so I don't know when I'll be able to post another chapter? Next week, hopefully, I should be able to eke something out. I will see. Until then, please be patient with slow updates. I promise I'll get back on track as soon as possible. 
> 
> Enjoy this (short, but still meaningful, ig) chapter!

_Maxie opened his mouth, but no words came out—instead, his teeth were filled to the cracks with salt water, thick as cornmeal and stingingly sweet as molasses. In the dream, he still tried to speak, even though he was eternally drowning and eternally searching. It had been years, and Maxie continued to swim downward and claw at the sea around him._

_The ocean became darker yet the further from the surface Maxie swam, the light fading into the powerful arms of black that squeezed his body. Before his visage, his long red hair flickered into view, appearing like licks of flame from either side. Maxie saw his arm reach forward, grappling in the liquid prison, as if grabbing for something unseen. Just as his hand connected with something surprisingly soft for such harsh surroundings, his vision went from blue fire to hot, tepid unconsciousness._

_He drowned._

_But even as he drowned, he strangely felt that the thing he grabbed was worth dying for._

* * *

 

Maxie examined the salt pillar embedded in the dead Walrein’s blubber-thick shoulder. “I am afraid that the pirates have been here,” he observed to Tabitha, who was shuffling about in the sand by the shore of the Shoal Cave’s entrance with patent disappointment. He nodded over to the group of snapped stalagmites, devoid of their peaked steeples, ravaged and gone. Archie had taken the salt to fashion into spears, Maxie knew. The breaks seemed fresh and clean—perhaps they had just missed them.

“Blast it,” Tabitha cursed. Another billow of sand blew up in the mild breeze in the cavern from a kick delivered by his fat leg. “The Shoal Shells in the sand have disappeared as well. Blast it! Perhaps they are hiding in France, now.” Maxie’s first mate looked over at his captain desperately. “What do we do now?”

Sighing, Maxie brushed off the sand on his tight britches and stood up after adjusting the buckle on his boot, which had gone astray from clambering about in the cave. He glanced out from the lip of the Shoal Cave’s entrance, the broad outline of his ship in the near distance. When his crew had sailed up to the cave, the tide was low enough to bring a rowboat out and for Maxie and Tabitha to travel alone without stripping to their undergarments and swimming. Because it was clear that Archie’s crew had been there recently, Maxie presumed that the tide was high when they entered the cave. Likely, they had to dive into it.

 _Dive into it._ Something in his mind clicked. Maxie began to think and could not turn off the faucet of endlessly flowing thoughts. He thought back to the early days and imagined Archie peeling his shirt away from his umber skin, revealing his ripples of muscles. Maxie thought of Archie swimming underwater, his unkempt black hair undulating in the ocean’s spray, pointed and groomed beard awry with each push. How his arms would flex, how his legs would kick, how his orotund eyes would glimmer as brilliantly as a lighthouse—

“Sir,” Tabitha said. Maxie’s glazed stare snapped and he returned to reality. Silently, he scolded himself for slipping into distraction so easily. “Er, what will we do now?”

“I apologize, I was not paying attention,” Maxie responded. “They are most certainly _not_ hiding in France.” He gestured to the rowboat. “We will return to the boat. Sail back to the ship. And set a straight course for the nautical center of the Atlantic Ocean.” Archie wasn’t the kind of man to hide. Archie went. Archie had his mind set on his final goal and Maxie knew very well that he would fight to achieve it without rest. Of course, Maxie knew that firsthand. He knew that because Maxie himself used to be the goal.

Tabitha cocked his head in confusion. “Why?” he inquired. “Are you certain that they aren’t in—”

“Absolutely certain,” Maxie interrupted. “According to the journal that the pirate leader has, the legendary Kyogre lives in a cavern at the very center of the Atlantic Ocean known as the Cave of Origin. Upon reaching those coordinates, he will engage in battle with Kyogre. That is what he is doing and that is where he is heading. It will take him weeks, but there is no doubt in my mind that he is going there.” Nudging the Walrein corpse aside with the toe of his shoe, Maxie marched back to the rowboat. “We shall leave now. We mustn’t waste any time. Each moment squandered is one more league further from us that they are.”

Tabitha hurried back to the rowboat, clamping his mouth shut after a moment of inaudible protest. “How is there a cave at the center of the ocean?” he inquired as he pulled up the small anchor and Maxie wielded one of the two oars on board.

“I haven’t the faintest inkling,” he responded. He dipped the oar in the water and pushed forward and Tabitha rushed to collect himself and do the same. “That was in the journal we shared while younger buccaneers. Archibald Connell is a very single-minded individual. He is going there and that is all I know.”

They rowed in silence for a moment, Maxie increasing his pace to return to the ship as quickly as possible, but his accursed first mate chose to pry. “Excuse me for asking, sir,” he said. “But how exactly do you know so much about the pirate dog? You seem to have a deep understanding of his psyche and planning.”

Maxie hesitated, then chose to remove his barriers. He chose to only tell half-shells of the truth—there was no reason to confess everything to Tabitha. Still, his first mate was a strong listener and he knew his voice would not be squandered. “Archibald and I have a… history,” he relented. He felt his muscles tense and the oar seemed to be weighted with lead. “We were good friends during the early days of our navy career; we even served on our first ship together. Before that, childhood playmates. I have known him intimately for a time.” He paused, lifting the oar for a minute, and if Tabitha had not continued rowing, they would have surely gone adrift. Maxie did not look back at Tabitha.

He sensed Tabitha looking up at him, his red eyes aglow with confusion. “Sir, you ceased rowing,” he pointed out.

Shaking his head, Maxie returned to his previous task. “Archibald was a regret, nothing more,” he said. “I apologize. I should have not spoken at such length.”

“I understand, Captain,” said Tabitha. The ship loomed on the horizon and, off the starboard bow with the sun casting a glare off her pale hair, Maxie saw Courtney standing at attention with the rest of the crew, awaiting their return with ropes and leads in hand to pull up the boat. “It must be difficult for you to pursue your formerly close comrade. Your pain is felt by not only myself, but all of us. Please, if you need to speak with someone and find comfort, I am here for you.” He grimaced. “And I suppose our navigator is as well.”

 _No, it is not,_ Maxie thought, burying the troubling thought in the back of his mind. His crew would not know how he truly felt. Not Courtney, and certainly not Tabitha, either—as much as he trusted them, his past with Archie was far too precarious for him to even tread on, let alone confess to anyone. However, as he gave a backward glance and saw Tabitha regarding him with genuine concern and fondness, he blew out a sigh that he was unaware he was holding. He had chosen well for this mission. Someday, he felt that it would come out.

But until he could finally catch the one that was running from him and keep him where he could never escape again, that day was not here yet.

“My feelings matter not,” Maxie told Tabitha as they came up to the hull of the ship. “We have more important things to see to.”

* * *

 

_That was the whole truth._


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: excessively flirty French. Also, I had to use Google Translate to figure out my French, so if it sucks, I apologize in advance. Someone can correct me if need be.
> 
> LOOK WHAT I GOT DONE IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS. Please hold your applause. I have like 100 homework assignments and I haven't done any of them. Sorry for the absence--I had a friend visiting. My boyfriend will be here in a few days too, but... maybe I can get another chapter done by then? Maybe? (Probably not.)
> 
> There is a lot of flashback fluff in this chapter. Enjoy it. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to have a lot going on. There's going to be a fight scene. Are you pumped up or what?!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!
> 
> EDIT: I would also like to say that Archie did not develop his "pirate accent" until after he joined the navy. In most flashbacks (unless they're navy-related), he speaks without one.
> 
> EDIT 2: Fixed a few typos.
> 
> EDIT 3: Thanks to gghero for helping me fix some errors in the French!

They had been on the course toward the middle of the Atlantic Ocean for two days now and Spheal was not becoming any less restless—or, as Archie noted from its voracious appetite, any less hungry.

“Yer a growin’ boy, lad,” he told the Spheal one morning in his cabin as it consumed massive quantities of the Shellder meat his crew had caught the night before and cooked. He stroked the soft, blubbery skin of his new Pokemon and it purred happily, gazing up at him with affection in its glowing, black-beaded eyes. “Eat it all if yeh please. But save a morsel for me, yea?” He chickled as the Spheal disregarded him and continued eating with joy, sipping noisily and emitting a loud belch.

Archie placed the half-shell of Shelder down on his cot and pinched the Spheal behind the ear gently, causing it to yelp and quirk its tiny mouth. “Manners, my boy,” he scolded lovingly. “We’re a pirate crew and yer a baby, but that does not mean that yeh will not be held to the same standards as the rest of my men!” The Spheal yipped in response and clapped its flippers, as if acknowledging Archie’s command. It then looked to him again, as if seeking permission to continue. The slightest nod from the bearded pirate captain set off the famished Pokemon and it buried its head in the dull gray husk once more.

For the first time since the dismal encounter with the Walrein in the Shoal Cave, Archie found himself smiling. There had been a tense chain connecting each and every last one of his crewmembers, their normally vociferous sea shanties and vehement camaraderie falling notoriously silent after he, Matt, and Shelly had gathered everyone after the expedition to the cave to discuss their plans. The thought of putting their lives at risk to fight a sea monster that, perchance, did not even exist, put a strong dampener on their moods. Now, the sails were raised each morning in silence, meals were taken without a word exchanged, and the decks swabbed in lieu of song. Their nervous emotions were palpable to Archie, but, for the life of him, he could not find a way to raise their morale.

“Maybe I should let yeh play with the crew,” he said aloud to Spheal, who was not listening at all through his food. “Perhaps they would be a bit happier to kiss and tickle a cute lil’ scamp such as yerself. What do yeh think?” When Spheal did not seem to be receptive of Archie’s words, the buccaneer sighed and leaned back against the aft wall of his cabin where his cot was propped, arms folded over his broad chest. For a time, he watched the Spheal eat, having lost his own appetite to the unkempt behavior of his newest crewmate. It reminded him of the unrefined young man he used to be and the refined young man he grew up with—and the fact that his old friend was all but cultured when alone.

It was at times such as these that Archie could not help but to think back to his childhood days with Maxie, stealing away in the night to meet at the pier to play seamen and pirates and walking home together after Archie was finished with work in his father’s fields. After their first meeting, Archie learned much about Maxie’s wealthy upbringing, from his advanced grip on the King’s English to his violin lessons every Saturday afternoon. And, seeing the pain reflected in the scarlet mirrors that were his friend’s eyes, Archie could tell how much he resented it. Perhaps there was a part of him that wished, through the loud games on crude wooden boats out on the Liverpool marina, that he could trade places with slave boy Archibald.

Deep in Archie’s heart, however, he was envious of Maxie. He was jealous of Maxie’s perceived closeness with his biological father and the absence of falsehood in his young life. He desired to learn ancient seafarer’s languages, just as Maxie did, and learn to play a musical instrument with the adroit of a real British gentleman. Maxie was conscious of this and did his best to give Archie a taste of the life of equality when they were not playing—on occasion, Maxie would bring books and teach Archie how to read English. Archie fell madly in love with them, mesmerized by their sweet-smelling bindings and florid, fell swoops of inkblots that somehow formed words. He was amazed at how easily the sentences he spoke aloud could be transcribed onto paper. After he learned how to read, Archie was taught how to write—not just English, but a variety of languages that Maxie was learning alongside him.

In adolescence, Archie remembered how they had shifted their activities from playing to dedicating their time to becoming fluent in Old Norse and French. Maxie was a romantic in his heart and Archie detected this with how lovingly he uttered French during their secret weekly lessons. But it was the tonal, guttural language of the Nordic lands that captivated Archie—unlike his friend, he desired to be a legendary sailor like the Vikings and bask in their lore, while Maxie was dedicated to becoming a traveled diplomat. With the _bonjour_ s and the _ça va_ s came the _kveðja_ s and _góðr_ s and within a short time, they were practiced in both. Still, as adulthood came on and they found themselves at arms with French pirates, Maxie remained to be the one much more blessed with a silver tongue.

Archie wished from the bottom of his heart that it had nothing to do with the color of his skin.

“Are you in here, Captain?” Shelly’s voice rang from outside, shaking Archie from his brief reverie. With a boost upward, Archie got to his feet and softly shooed the Spheal from the Shellder chaos, scooping up the empty shells and discarding the leftover meat by the door. He opened his room up to his first mate, who was standing before him with clear discomfiture marring her expression, eyebrows crinkled and mouth pursed in a frown. Her long black hair was tied back with what appeared to be hemp twine, likely pilfered from one of the potato bags down in storage. As usual, she did not wear a shirt, but her pantaloons and black boots remained shined and oddly immaculate.

“Aye, lass, what can I do for yeh?” Archie asked. He ushered Shelly inside. She entered, taking a seat at his desk yet again, still appearing troubled. The Spheal, eager to greet the visitor to his owner’s cabin, shuffled its way toward Shelly and sniffed daintily at her clothing. Leaning down, Shelly scratched under its chin and it made a cheerful noise in response.

“Morale is low,” Shelly sighed. “The silence among the crew seemed normal even yesterday, but it is becoming far worse than I could have imagined.” She picked up the Spheal and continued to stroke it. “I have been up at the crow’s nest all morning and have not heard even a sound from any man’s mouth. They are worried.”

Archie nodded. “As they should be,” he said. “This is a dangerous mission, after all.”

“A mission as dangerous and foolish as the man ordering,” Shelly returned and Archie was taken aback at the powerful blow of her words. He nearly staggered as the ship lurched slightly, Matt probably correcting an oversight at the wheel above. As if he were in battle, Archie decided to counter—but as he opened his mouth, no words came out. The Spheal exchanged a glance between the captain and his first mate, Shelly’s stare as icy as the interior of the cave the Pokemon had come from. Somewhat perplexed, the baby Pokemon snuggled against Shelly’s plentiful breasts, tuckering into the radiating warmth.

“You question me, lass?” Archie demanded. “I trust yer judgment, but I will not take insubordination from my second-in-command.” The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, a cornered animal, angry to defend his position. Was going after Kyogre not the preferable option? He had always considered it the proper choice following his escape and he believed his crew to be on his side—or, if not them, at least Shelly.

Shelly, completely unaffected by Archie’s acerbic response, patted the Spheal on the head before placing it on the floor of the cabin. “I have been thinking since before the Shoal Cave,” she said, “and I have been concerned at how little you have told the crew. They are afraid not only because they fear the unknown, but also because you have made hardly any effort to educate them.” Shelly’s voice was level. “A crew is only as good as their captain, and you are falling short.”

Archie huffed and leaned against the doorframe from where he was standing, the cramped quarters giving no space for any other movement. “Are yeh planning a mutiny against me, lass?” he tested.  All things considered, he was fairly certain that she was not—Shelly was fiercely loyal, after all, but she was wise enough to question her captain as a man of flaw. Still, she had been stretching his authority more now that she ever had before, even during campaigns with the navy under his command.

Shelly rolled her eyes. “Of course not, sir,” she said. “You know I would never betray you; I’d betray myself before that. I am merely suggesting that you be more upfront with your crew about the reason that you are chasing this legendary beast. For fame, for recognition, for whatever it is that you are seeking to please in England.” There was a sardonic edge in Shelly’s remarks. “Whether it is the Queen or somebody else. Take stock, Archie—not even Matt, your navigator, knows what going to happen.”

“So we shall give him the journal,” Archie compromised, “and he can read fer ‘imself.”

With a scoff, Shelly retorted, “Matt cannot read Old Norse, let alone the Queen’s English. I recommend speaking with him.”

There was a twinge in Archie’s chest. Shelly told the truth—Archie and his first mate were the only two literate members of the ship in their native language and in others. Speech was only one part; reading was an entirely different creature. Shelly had been well-versed in a number of languages when Archie met her (a self-taught linguist since her youth), but Matt—and unquestionably the rest of the crew—had no formal education in books.

“All right,” Archie said slowly, knowing she had identified the core of the problem. “I will call ‘im in for a meeting. Could yeh inform ‘iem that I’d like to see ‘im in my cabin straightaway? You have knowledge of how to steer a ship, yea?”

“Not so fast,” Shelly said, raising her palm to him. Only Archie’s first mate could ignore a dismissal order; Archie was secretly glad that she was not a naval man, for she would have been shot long ago. “I am not finished. I would also like you to explain yourself to your crew. Tell them why you are going to fight Kyogre. They need to know more than anyone else.”

Archie sighed. “Shelly, I cannot do that,” he said. “Even the lie would not be good.”

Leaning back, Shelly slid her left arm around her waist and tilted the chair back so it was balancing on its back legs, her right elbow supporting her weight behind her on the desk. She looked up at him from underneath her eyelashes and flashed him a demure smile, very unlike her. “So instead of relating to a partial deception,” she said, “tell them the whole truth. The whole truth being that ‘something’ you want back in England is a lover.”

Archie nearly choked on his own slaver. Shelly’s bluntness hit him with the force of a kick in the stomach. “And what makes yeh think that, Shelly?” he asked with a tentative smirk, trying to understate his shock that Shelly had spoken the truth.

“When you told me your whole truth before we made a course for the Shoal Cave, you spoke with the romantic clout of a blabbering fool,” she pointed out. “I knew from the moment you confessed that English glory was simply a ruse for the fact that there is somebody in particular that you desire to impress. It was obvious to me that your heart has been claimed since the day I came into your acquaintance.”

Curious, Archie investigated deeper. “How did yeh know?” he inquired.

“There is hearsay from the crew,” Shelly said. “Rumors, if you will. They all believe that we are lovers, you and I. I found that strange to hear at first, but on a second thought, I understand that most men would gladly take advantage of a female vassal who does not cover her breasts. However, you have never made such a lewd motion toward me—instead, you have treated me with the utmost respect of any captain to his first mate.” Shelly nodded at him. “Which led me to realize that any man who does not target his women sailors is either the master of his personal control or lost in love with another.”

Archie could not help but to laugh. “And yeh threw away the former one as pure nonsense, yes?” He tittered. “I am no master of control?”

Shelly’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Of course not,” she said. “I know you quite well, Archie. You unloose yourself at the proper moments. It is simple, really. Admit that you are doing this for love. Your crew can identify. I am certain that they have all been there before. But first—” Shelly leaned forward again, planting all four legs of the chair down and wrapping her free arm around her waist, joining the over. She inclined toward Archie, regarding him with interest. “Please tell me of this person you love so much.”

In the few minutes between calling Matt into his cabin to discuss with him the finer points of their mission, Archie took the time to tell Shelly about Maximilian Matheson—everything from his red hair to his poor eyesight to how wonderful he sounded when he spoke in French.

* * *

_“Pamplemousse,” Maxie said, and Archie laughed hysterically. Maxie was grinning as well, his long red hair twisted and tired to one side of his angular cheeks, framing his lovely face. His white teeth were resplendent against the sweet orange glow of the lamp, the slow burn of the Wailord fat smelling oily and everlasting. This was an evening where Archie’s mother was out visiting his father for the night, which Archie took as an opportunity to invite his best friend over to his confined dirt hut._

_Even though they were both growing youths now, nearing the age of sixteen, Maxie was still in love with the cracked brown walls of Archie’s one-room home, just large enough for two beds and a secondhand chair. He reveled in attacking the insects that sometimes made their way through the drafts in the door and corners and commented contentedly on the fragrance of earth. His home, Maxie said, always reeked of must and dust and it made him very sad._

_“S-say it again!” Archie giggled, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “S-say it! It is so perfect!”_

_“Pamplemousse,” Maxie said with a soft monotone. The delivery caused both young men to begin howling with laughter, collapsing on one another in gleeful amusement onto Archie’s bed where they sat. Archie gripped Maxie’s thin body close to his wide muscles, wheezing until he was almost out of breath. Maxie’s skeleton shook against him, the points of his bones digging into Archie’s skin._

_As soon as the pair had gathered their wits about them, they sat up and faced each other. The French books that Maxie had stolen from his father’s library were scattered all over the bedsheets and they both took to rearranging them. “What does that word mean in English?” Archie asked. “I have never heard it before.”_

_“It is a word for the plump fruit that my father brings home from the New World sometimes,” Maxie said. “It is very fat and juicy, but tart. It is not good to eat on its own. The inside is bright pink.” He frowned. “Why, I do not think there is an English word for it. But the French diplomats my father knows eat them every day.”_

_Archie wrinkled his nose. “What a silly word for such a disgusting-sounding fruit,” he said. “I would not want to eat it.”_

_“I have tried it. They are awful indeed,” Maxie said. “I assume they would be good with sugar or salt. But the Frenchmen eat them raw until the juice dribbles down their chin.”_

_Archie started laughing again. “How vile!” he chortled. “They are worse barbarians than us. And you want to learn their language!”_

_Maxie stuck his tongue out at his friend. “Peace! If I am going to learn it, you will learn it with me!” Flickering his gaze downward beneath the thick glass lenses, Maxie tucked an errant strand of his hair behind one ear, revealing the bands that curled around his lobes to hold the eyewear in place. “Focus, Archibald. We shall practice our French until we can eat those fruit just like the rest of them.”_

_Archie opened one of the books that they had thrown about in their hilarity. “I do not want to learn French if it means I must eat the devil’s fruit,” he complained. “_ C'est dégoûtant _! It is disgusting.”_

 _With a snort, Maxie scanned down the page he was looking at. “It is appropriate for you to learn anyway,” he said. “Any proper English gentleman should learn the tongues of his enemies. Now, I will say a few phrases to you and you shall tell me what they mean in English. Here is the first:_ quel est votre nom _?”_

_“I cannot be an English gentleman with the color of my skin,” Archie explain, stroking his beard. He had begun growing facial hair and had wanted Maxie to steal a razor for him so he could shave his face, but Maxie refused for a reason he did not give. “That one is easy. What is your name?”_

_“Nonsense,” Maxie said. “Mannerism and charity is not restricted to heritage. Here is another:_ où puis-je acheter de la nourriture _?”_

_“That is easy for you to say,” Archie mumbled, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “You are a white Englishman and you are accepted. You are not a half-breed such as myself. Where can I purchase food?”_

_“I should make these harder,” Maxie said, referring to the phrase exercise and almost completely disregarding Archie’s expression of doubt. Archie felt himself heat up with rage, ready to spring on Maxie for his callous dismissal of his pain, but it subsided instantly when Maxie uttered the next sentence: “_ Que feriez-vous Si je t'embrassais maintenant _?”_

_Any anger that fueled Archie previously had disappeared without a trace, replaced by what was clearly a knot of Beautiflies in his stomach. He saw Maxie look up, patiently waiting for his response, as if he hadn’t just asked him the most provocative thing that Archie had ever encountered, French or not. His face felt hot, watching Maxie study him with his crimson, uniform gaze. Maxie’s pupils were fatter and darker than Archie remembered._

_“Do you want me to respond to that or tell you what it means?” Archie asked, his tongue feeling swollen for no particular reason._

_“Both,” Maxie said. His voice was the same soft monotone that he’d used when joking, but it suddenly seemed very serious. “I would like you to say both.”_

_“Ah.” Archie could not speak coherently. “Ah… what would you do if I kissed you right now? Maxie, how is this relevant?”_

_“Please answer my question,” Maxie said._

_“Well,” Archie said, unsure of which route he should take between the ones laid before him. “I would be startled, most certainly. Startled, but not… it would not be unpleasant. To be honest, I am not sure how I would react.” Archie broke eye contact and stared at the exit to his home instead. He felt that he should ask Maxie to leave. But at the moment, it did not seem right._

_“Then how about we find out?” Maxie said breathlessly as he shifted forward, closing the gap between them. He pressed his upper lip against Archie’s, his tender skin connecting with Archie’s rough, weather-beaten mouth and coarse hair. Archie felt stones lighter, almost giddy as Maxie’s expiration moved in rhythm with his. Almost involuntarily, Archie felt his arm move up to Maxie’s shoulder, but instead of pushing his friend away, Archie tugged him closer, pressed his lips to the young man’s._

_Archie had never felt anything so silken as Maxie in his entire life—from the surface of his skin, where Archie ran his fingertips, to the red locks where Archie soon found his hand. Maxie’s mouth shivered open and his tongue slid inside Archie’s mouth, tangling with his, and Archie wanted nothing more than to win against it._

_They broke apart for a moment and Archie pulled away just enough to see the partial fog clouding Maxie’s eyewear. He wanted to laugh, but the tightness in his chest destroyed that notion. Maxie’s hair, usually so smooth and kept, was slightly askew. For the first time, Archie looked at his best friend and saw beauty._

_Archie smiled. “Apparently, I would do that,” he said._

_Maxie smiled back shyly, something Archie thought he would never see. “To be honest, I have wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted sheepishly. “I hope you would forgive me.”_

_“I did not,” Archie said, but when Maxie flinched, he continued. “But I did not know I would want it that much.”_

_“Archie,” Maxie said hesitantly. “Please do not insult yourself. You… your skin and your ancestry does not matter to me. You are the most delightful person I have ever met. You are charming, humorous, and…” He blushed bright red and Archie was reminded of the day after they met as children and Archie had kissed on the cheek to return the favor from the time before. “… and you are handsome. Very… uh, very handsome.” Reaching up gingerly, Maxie ran a finger along Archie’s exposed bicep, over the hard muscle that he had built from fieldwork, and Archie felt a tingling trail of fire follow its path._

_Archie leaned forward and touched Maxie’s ear with his lips. “So you would say…” he began, the rumbling vibrations causing Maxie to shudder with unconcealed pleasure. “… that I am…_ beau _?”_

_Maxie swatted at him. “Oh, stop it,” he sneered, and Archie chuckled. “I cannot think of French anymore.”_

_Archie went around and pressed his nose against Maxie’s, grinning deviously. “Then let us do something else to occupy our time,” he suggested._

_“I think that would be sufficient,” Maxie said huskily._

_“_ Suffisant _?” Archie asked. Maxie quited him by kissing him again._

_This time, Archie was not surprised._


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh... I lied. The battle scene is actually next chapter. I wrote this in because I realized I'd forgotten to introduce an important concept earlier in the story. Forgive me. This is the faux pas of the writer. 
> 
> I'm kind of crimped for time (my boyfriend is visiting and I'm surprised I even had time to write this), but I promise I'll try to be faster for the next chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Maxie could speak now. “I’m coming!” he cried into the water, the sound resonating as perfectly as it would be if he were standing on solid ground. He kicked down, further and further, seemingly impervious to his watery prison, searching endlessly for the elusive being that appeared to not exist. Maxie felt as if he were watching from the other end of a spyglass far in a different directional plane, but at the same time, he was within this boy, his hair spiraling around him like fire and his eyes affixed on the invisible prize._

_And, just where his dream left off the last time, Maxie felt his vessel grab onto something, but this time, he did not fade into oblivion afterwards. Instead, the suffocating world around him persisted, and the young man pulled upward and began to swim toward the light, dragging the dead weight of the unidentified object behind him. Maxie felt that he had saved something akin to the Holy Grail—the thing he took with him seemed like the most important thing in the world. If not to anyone else, then at least it was to him._

_He looked down and saw that he was pulling a dark arm, the black hairs on the surface of its skin wavering in the undulation of the ocean, just has his own hair had done before. With another gentle tug, he revealed a churning mess of black atop a head that looked all too familiar to Maxie. With a smile, the individual he was pulling to safety opened their eyes and, with a joyful gleam, stared at him with all the love in the world._

I have you, Archie. You are going to be all right.

* * *

 

“I have made something.” Tabitha slammed the odd contraption on Maxie’s writing desk one afternoon, not a few days after they had departed from the Shoal Cave on the trail of Archie’s crew. Looking up from his captain’s log, Maxie squinted at the mess of thread and wires protruding from what seemed to be a red Apricorn. Briefly, Maxie reviewed it from under the scrutinizing mirror of his eyewear before turning back to his journal and scribbling a short thought.

_Captain’s log: Tabitha has become insane._

Sighing, Maxie placed down his quill beside the inkwell on his desk and slipped his fingers beneath the elastic bands that kept his eyewear in place, rubbing his temples. He was exhausted and exasperated that he was going to return to England empty-handed and only his regrets in tow, and now his first mate was losing his wits. “Tabitha, your duty is to be my right hand, not stab sharp items into fruit,” he droned. “Have you ever heard of scurvy? Stop wasting our food.”

“No, sir, this is important,” Tabitha said hastily. Maxie nearly slumped back in his chair. His schedule was full of busywork, especially while attempting to move quickly to make up for lost time at the Shoal Cave, and the last thing he needed was an odd contraption from his first mate when the man should have been supervising the crew with him. Tabitha had never been much of an inventor, at least under Maxie’s tutelage, but he was always trying to create something useful. After a number of failed “improvements” to sextants and lackluster attempts to steer a ship without a man at the helm, Tabitha’s future as a scientist was somewhat bleak.

Maxie rolled his eyes. “Midshipman, I have no idea about what you could possibly create that could be of use to our mission,” he said. “Unless you have created something that arrests Archie without our direct contact, I am not interested.”

Tabitha shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it cannot capture a human, but it can hold a Pokemon,” he said, a wide grin painting his fat features. “As large as an Onix and as small as a Pichu.”

Maxie gave the strange contraption another long, hard stare. It appeared that Tabitha had hollowed out one of the red Apricorns that Maxie had commissioned to be placed on the ship for nourishment (though a tough fruit to consume it was—his crew were constantly trying to find ways to make the hard skin and dry meat more edible, going as far as soaking them in sea water) and cut it in half, connecting each part with somewhat haphazardly strewn wires and bolts. There was a crude hinge on one side, one Maxie recognized as one of the hinges on the doors in the crews’ mass quarters in the deep hull of the ship. He would have to scold his first mate for tampering with the parts later.

“Tabitha,” he said gently, as if speaking to a skittish child. “What is this, precisely?”

“A Pokemon ball!” Tabitha said cheerfully. “I have been working on a prototype since I was first placed under your command. The Royal Navy has been searching for ways to capture Pokemon and use them as weapons instead of companions, but there is no conceivable way without taking the time to befriend them first. But! I have created this!” Tabitha waggled his fingers proudly toward the disorderly invention.

“An Apricorn with pieces of metal stabbed through it?” Maxie asked skeptically.

“No, a Pokemon ball, sir,” Tabitha corrected. “That is its unofficial working name. “If you throw it at a Pokemon that has been weakened, it will disappear into the ball and be held there. If you would like it to come out and fight for you, it may be called out by throwing the ball again. It is ingenious. And it works! I have tested it!” Tabitha was practically bouncing on his heels in excitement at the presentation of this new device. However, his joy was not contagious, as Maxie continued to scowl at the object.

“And is this what you have been spending your valuable time doing?” Maxie demanded. “Instead of your job supervising the crew in my occasional absence?”

“Oh, of course not, sir,” Tabitha reassured. “I have only been working on this during my dismissal. I have lost much sleep perfecting my Pokemon ball. I would never dream of intruding my hobby upon my career.”

Maxie sighed. Tabitha seemed overjoyed that he had accomplished something and, though it likely did not function as he promised, Maxie believed his first mate’s claim that he had not been stinting on his work. He glanced down at his captain’s log and resolved to finish it later—he was busy, but he had time to humor his friend. “All right,” Maxie said, closing the journal and leaning back in his desk chair. “Give me a demonstration.”

His crimson eyes brightening, Tabitha eagerly grabbed for the Pokemon ball. “Absolutely, sir!” He wielded the ball and, pulling his arm back, let out a peculiar battle cry. “Come out, Snorunt!” With an earnest jerk of his arm, Tabitha threw the ball forward and it sailed in the air for merely a moment before suddenly opening, a blast of white light discharging from the hollow interior. In the wake of the brilliant gleam stood a little Pokemon with a dark face and a straw body with a steeple, its orb-like hands mashed together in anxiety. It knocked them together and emitted a modest noise that sounded much like a squeak.

Maxie was shocked. Had he just witnessed something of Tabitha’s actually _working_? And just the way Tabitha described it? “Amazing,” he mumbled, eyeing the Snorunt as it toddled precariously over to Tabitha, teetering from side to side, shaken by the ship’s gentle sway, even Courtney’s flawless sailing not quite smooth enough for the baby Pokemon. Smiling, Tabitha bent down and picked it up, stroking its delicate skin with his forefinger.

“You see?” said Tabitha. “They even become docile after a time in the ball. I discovered that Apricorns have a sedative property that makes Pokemon very tranquil. I remember that some of our fishermen use them as bait, so I decided to see if I could use them to contain a Pokemon. I tested it in the Shoal Cave on this wild Snorunt while we were investigating the pirate dog’s destruction.” He held out the Snorunt to Maxie. “And look! He does not seem distressed or uncomfortable, even after several days without exercise. I am determining that this device is perfectly safe to use. The navy would give me a substantial income for it!” Tabitha tapped the side of the Apricorn against the Snorunt and the Pokemon disappeared again in a brief flash, entering the ball once more.

Maxie rolled his eyes. Of course Tabitha would want a bonus. Honestly, Maxie would not mind a supplement himself, but he felt there were more important things to focus on at the moment. Nevertheless, he was truly impressed at his first mate’s intelligence. “I applaud you, Tabitha,” he said. “You have done well. I am sure the Navy will like this.” He turned back to his desk and opened his journal. “Now do you mind leaving me? I must finish my log before heading out the deck.”

Out of the corner of his vision, blurred because his lenses didn’t extend to his blind spots, Maxie saw Tabitha frown. “Captain, is there something wrong?” he inquired. “You have been acting disturbed since we left the Shoal Cave. What are you thinking about?”

“I asked you to leave, Tabitha,” Maxie said, his patience short.

“Will you not answer my question?” Tabitha implored.

Maxie glanced back at his first mate, the rotund cherub that served under him, and realized that he could tell him nothing. He trusted Tabitha fully—but with every piece of him, Maxie resisted confessing to anyone. He would not tell Courtney, his longtime childhood friend, so why would he tell Tabitha, who had not been his companion for longer than a handful of years on the sea? He would be too startled by the truth behind his anguish to comprehend. A first mate was an extension of a captain’s authority, emotion, and will—and despite Tabitha’s staunch support, Maxie felt that he could not let him be a true extension. His crew would fail. He would fail.

Because of what was at stake, he could not.

“Not right now,” Maxie said firmly. “Please. You are dismissed.”

Disgruntled, Tabitha left Maxie alone in his cramped captain’s cabin, and Maxie was all that remained in the wake of his churning emotions. He had just seen what could have possibly been a revolutionary invention—but no part of Maxie could concentrate on that. In the few minutes after, Maxie took the time to remember all he could about the good memories of Archibald Connell—everything from his black hair to his powerful body to how intelligent he was when given the capabilities, just like his first mate.


End file.
